How Much Is Enough?
by Rock-Witch
Summary: Sark appears with Sydney's answers, but are they enough? How far is she willing to go and who will she take with her? Who can she drag that deep?
1. Chapter 1

The young man's fingers moved furiously over the keyboard, hammering away at it before pausing briefly every few minutes only to return with new determination. His face was impassive, his eyes scanning everything on the screen, searching for anything that would alert him to his target. There; 'Lazarey, A', sub-folder: 'Lazerey, J.'  
  
_Too easy. For an international terrorist organization they were pretty ignorant when it came to high-level security._  
  
His fingers tapped the mouse, opening the folder. The screen filled with numbers and letters, evidently jumbled and making no logical sense.  
  
_Well, kudos to them. They actually coded their files. Shame its not too helpful when the enemy already has it; codes can be broken._  
  
Copying the file to a disk the figure stole a look over his shoulder, through a doorway that revealed a beautiful woman sprawled asleep on a leather couch, a blanket draped over her only covering half her person and long dark hair that cascaded over the arm of the sofa. The man didn't let his eyes linger, or appreciate the sight but returned his eyes immediately to the screen.  
  
_It seems we have a little time on our hands._  
  
This time the fingers type the word 'S', this time lazily, with no concern for time or a predetermined agenda and no sooner had they pressed enter a whole page of files appeared, the names of which all contained a capital 's'. One of the man's eyebrows raised in an expression of curiosity. He clicked on the file, his face falling momentarily when he realized that it too was coded.  
  
_Maybe I've not given them enough credit. Separate folders for J. Lazeray and Mr Sark. Clever people.  
_  
With a click of the mouse he had closed the folder and saved it to the same disk as before. He was about to close the screen down when the man's alert eyes caught something else. 'Bristow, S,' sub-folder: 'Thorne, J'. At that moment a small moan came from the room behind him. In a series of uncannily quick moves the man saved that folder to his disk, wiped the keyboard memory he just knew would be installed and re-connected the computer to the network, disabling the dummy system he had activated. He turned off the screen and removed the disk. Flipping open his phone he spoke into it, "Understood ... yes ... three days ... I'll be in contact soon." The click of the closing phone resounded through the room and he made his way back to the woman sprawled on the couch. Her lilting French accent sounded heavy with sleep,  
"Sark? What are you doing?" He strolled confidently towards her, "Just had to take a call, love."  
"Well come back to bed." The man obliged, slipping the disk into his jacket pocked as he settled beside her. He was glad that she hadn't noticed that his phone was off.

_Whoever said fucking the boss' daughter was a mistake, was so very, very wrong._


	2. Chapter 2

Sydney and Weiss were sprawled out on the sofa and armchair of Sydney's flat respectively. A bottle of scotch sat on the table, three quarters empty and an empty wine bottle was on the kitchen top, next to the stack of dirty plates. Both people were very, very drunk. A loud 'hiccup' could be heard and Sydney convulsed into a fit of giggles,  
  
"Errrrric! That's ruuude!" Followed by more giggles and Eric's expression descended into a frown.  
  
"It is! It is rude!" Exclaimed Eric rather suddenly, "I'm a bad man, Sydney! A bad, w-ery, uh 'v', v-v-v-ery, drunk man! Oh God! I am a man right?" This enticed even more giggles, followed by a loud bang. Sydney rolled off the couch, hitting the floor awkwardly groaning in pain before yet again, giggling. Weiss jumped up from where he was sitting to try and help Sydney, only succeeding in falling on the floor beside her. They lay like that for a long time, in silence, the giggles having long died.  
  
"Its only 9 Syd! We're absolutely slaughtered and it's only 9! Oh God! We've got work in the morning, there is going to be one hell of a hamover, errr, han-g-over knocking on my door!" At that Syd started singing, 'Knock knock knocking on heaven's door …' her voice died out and she looked over at Weiss, smiling wryly. He looked back   
  
mirroring her expression.  
  
"I should go, try and get some sleep before the nightmare that is tomorrow comes around!" Sydney nodded as he tried to get up, falling back down twice before actually balancing himself in an upright position.  
  
"You gonna get up?" Sydney looked straight above her, staring at the ceiling for a few moments before shaking her head lazily,  
  
"Nope. Its kinda comfy right here, I think I'll hang about for a bit." Weiss raised an eyebrow then nodded emphatically,  
  
"You need anything, just shout. Actually, make that a scream, I have a widdy biddy feeling I'll be sleeping kinda heavily." At this a goofy smile slipped over his face.  
  
"You gonna be my knight in shining armor Weiss? My knight in shining ar-mooor?" She giggled some more. He looked down on her, his grin widening,  
  
"M'lady!" He stooped in a stumbled attempt at a bow. His feet slipped and he caught himself clumsily on the coffee table, "I'd give you a kiss but I don't think I could lean down and manage to get back up in one piece! See you in the morning, Syd." Weiss turned around and made his way to the door, stopping every few steps to regain his balance. He reached the door and heard her shout 'Night Eric, sweet dreams!' after him.  
  
Sydney lay there for about an hour before moving. The immediate effect of the alcohol had died off, but despite that she was nowhere near sober. As she stood she tumbled forward onto the couch.  
  
Yup, still very, very drunk. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Earlier**  
  
Sark sat at his desk in a tall, winged-back, leather chair. In his hands he held a gold letter opener, tracing the edge with this finger he closed his hand around the tip and pushed it into his palm, pricking the skin. Striking blue eyes stared intently at the rivulets of blood gliding slowly down his hand.  
  
_They'll be blood spilt before this is over and it'll be by my hands, if it's the last thing I do.  
_  
Three folders sat on the mahogany desk in front of him, one on top of the other. The folder sitting on the top had 'LAZERAY, A. –LAZERAY, J.' written on the front in large, bold, black letters. They were stark against the mundane paper brown of the folder and stared back at him challengingly. Putting the letter opener on the desk to the right of the pile skilled fingers lifted the top folder, holding it gently. He swung the chair around to the fire roaring behind him. The fire light reflected off his soft features and his blond hair glistened giving him an angelic appearance, only his set expression gave away his true disposition. With a flick of his wrist the folder was flung into the flames. A couple of the escaped leaves of paper fluttered into the fire after the folder and the whole mess was engulfed.  
  
_Ashes to Ashes. Julian Lazeray no longer exists and he hasn't for a long time. These people would do best to remember that. However, he may no longer exist, but his inheritance does.   
_  
Mr. Sark's eyes didn't linger on the cremation.  
  
_I buried him a long time ago.  
_  
Instead he swung around in his chair to face the desk once again. The next folder looked exactly the same but for the name on the front. The type was the same but instead it read 'MR. SARK.'. He stared expressionlessly at that folder for a long time. He once again reached with skilled fingers, but this time he held the folder in his hands. Opening the front he was met with a photo of himself. Picking it up it suddenly disappeared into his fist, screwed into a tight ball. Sark's face was still expressionless but his eyes had taken on a deadly edge. They always held hidden depths of danger but now his eyes revealed death, blood spilling over into his iris'. His hand threw the ball fiercely into the fire behind him. He tossed the folder back onto the desk carelessly and it slid to the very far edge. His fingers crossed underneath his chin and he sat like that, bathed only in the fire light, long into the night.  
  
_The beast will never be tamed by chains_.   
  
Eventually he reached for his glass of '82. Swirling it delicately, his fingers perched on the stem, he lifted the glass to his lips, taking a long drink, savouring the taste. Setting the glass back down he felt the familiar sting of his eyes, brought on by too little sleep and too much intense concentration. He closed his eyes, resting them for barely moments before opening them again, ignoring the fatigue that threatened to take over his body. His eyes finally settled on the last folder sitting on his desk. 'BRISTOW, S. –THORNE, J.' He picked up the letter opener once again, sliding it into the folder, tensing it to break through the barrier holding it closed. The last folder was the only one that remained unopened. As he moved his wrist, starting to rip through the paper securing the folder's contents he stopped. Dropping the letter opener his brow wrinkled momentarily, a slip in his usual collected façade. Resuming his composed demeanor he stood abruptly, walking swiftly to the door, closing it as he left. Sark strolled through his property, entering his bedroom. He dispensed of his clothing without consideration and settled himself into his large, four poster bed. Running a hand through his hair he rested his head wearily back against the pillow.   
  
_You can't hide behind money, doors or walls. There are very few people you compromise yourselves by messing with, I happen to be one of them. So does Miss. Bristow. Be careful what you wish for, they might just come to you._


	4. Interlude

**Back to a rather drunk Sydney**  
  
Lying on the couch Sydney stared up at her ceiling, pretending she could see the stars, counting them like she had as a child. She considered the mess around her. She reached her hand up, pointing a finger and comets into her imaginary sky.  
  
_Vaughn. Lauren. The Covenant. Dad. Irina Derevko. Francie. Will. Eric. Dixon. The NS fucking C. Rambaldi. Sloane. Danny. Andrien Lazeray._ Sydney huffed audibly when the next thought came to her. _Julian Lazeray. Sark. Allison. Noah. Simon. Julia.  
_  
Sydney ended her stream of thoughts with that name. She had no desire to strain her mind and try and figure out where the divide lay, what was reality and what was not, who she was and who she wasn't. Besides, she was wayyyyy too drunk. They were all irrelevant anyway. The only word that succeeded in staying in her mind, the only word that reverberated around her head consistently was why. She thought of Eric again and absentmindedly considered how long ago he had actually left.  
  
_Sleep. He's tucked up in bed asleep._  
  
It didn't matter anyway. When he was around, which was a lot these days, he managed to convince himself she thought of herself as the Sydney of two years ago. She didn't mind playing the part either, it let her disappear for awhile. He'd been gone too long already, no one else managed to reach that plane of carefree-ness with her.  
  
_Jesus! Carefree-ness? Is that even a word Sydney? Drinking away your sorrows girl, real mature._  
  
She considered going to bed.  
  
_I won't be sleeping tonight. What's the point?  
_  
Instead the young woman lay there. Occasionally bursting into a wry laugh before smiling bitterly and retreating back into her silence, into her mind. 


	5. Chapter 4

_What the hell am I doing? Of every single life-threatening event I have planted myself in the midst of; this has got to be the singularly most idiotic move I have ever made. I might as well be an unarmed man walking through Battle Abby in 1066_.   
  
The figure stood in the hallway outside the door to the apartment. Finally, his hands blindly fiddled with the lock, clicking it open in a matter of seconds. His thoughts had continued whilst he moved instinctively, a rare show of emotion being presented to anyone who cared to take note through an uncomfortable grimace set on his face.  
  
_Well, he was right_. Something his self-confidence had never let him doubt. _And that was going to annoy her more so than his ironic presence in the home, the home of such a morally uptight puritan.   
_  
A sardonic grin slipped over his face.  
  
_Well, at least I'll get to play with her a little before she righteously decides that she will die with me if it means this world is rid of such immoral scum, before throwing herself wholeheartedly into ending my life, even if she knows she won't._  
  
The grin stopped suddenly. He remembered what he was right about and it didn't come down to just his baiting of her through his well placed, if not prophetic, instincts regarding their partnership. Sark's eyes hardened impenetrably, these were not games. They undoubtedly would play though; in vain attempts at distraction.   
  
_We're very good at distracting each other from our realities.   
_  
But their games had long lost the romanticism of the naïve. They were playing in the dark now; they'd begun walking into the sunset some time ago.   
  
_The art of our opposition. Perhaps because we really do detest everything the other stands for, perhaps because we detest the connection forced by our equality, perhaps because we detest the constant games with those that really are unworthy. Or perhaps because we love the chase.   
_  
The man bristled, his thoughts were too personal and his attentions too pointless.  
  
_Perhaps it's because I take from this everything I can and you give it it all that you have. Well I'll take from you everything I need and you'll give me everything you have, Miss Bristow. That's something I have no doubts about.   
_  
Without so much as blinking Sark slid through the door and into the apartment, his hand already playing with the handle of his gun expectantly. He wasn't met with a fist to the face, a bullet to the chest or even so much as the condescending presence of Agent Sydney Bristow peering incredulously at him and his audacity. Sark looked around the room he was standing in, it was all impersonal, affects she had bought after her resurrection in equal attempts to make her feel alive and convince others that she was very much so. The same old Sydney Bristow.   
  
_The 'same old Sydney Bristow' died in that house fire along with everything else that she stood for. And its time you acknowledged that, Sydney._  
  
It was then that Sark noticed the figure lying on the couch staring at the ceiling completely unaware of her surroundings. He then noticed the scotch sitting on the table and despite his obvious attempts he was not able to contain a smirk.  
  
_I see you've dealt with acknowledgement stunningly. How appropriate.   
  
_A voice, something that would have resembled Sydney Bristow's, take away the slurring and halting speech pattern.  
  
"Who'll the 'ell are –wait I actually not care. Kill me and j-j-j-ob good done to you. Mucho congratulations." Sydney didn't even bother to turn to look at the intruder.  
  
_Apparently not that unaware. Even when inebriated.  
_  
"A drunken CIA agent with a death wish, that does instill in me a considerable amount of hope regarding the future of you beloved, albeit ignorant, country." The words came out impassively, the bored tone and haunting accent inciting a far more volatile reaction from the young woman than the knowledge of an intruder standing a few feet behind her, the probability of a murderous intent being high. She jumped, attempted to jump, from her position, only missing hitting her head on the edge of the coffee table by millimeters when she stumbled before righting herself. Swinging to face the intruder she didn't have time to compute that her reaction time had been so slow that a man with the reflexes of a ninety year old suffering from obesity could probably have pulled that off quicker and with more grace.  
  
"Sark!" The exclamation came out in a far higher pitch than she intended, resulting in an almost squeal, something she immediately regretted, clutching her head in pain.   
  
He expected her to demand he explain himself, to launch herself at him, to point a loaded gun at his head, to throw the nearest heavy breakable his way. He did NOT expect what ensued.   
  
Sydney stood staring at him, her features a mixture of shock and a slight touch of fear. She stood there for several minutes, her computing and deduction skills considerably delayed due to her horrific alcohol intake.

Then she giggled. Manically.


	6. Chapter 5

Just so you know, and don't get confused...Sydneys thoughts are also in italics, but have # around them. _#Like This#_

Both parties stared at each other, with very different expressions gracing their faces. Sydney's had scrunched up in a fit of hysteria and a shocked, followed by horrified, expression fought its way onto Sark's face. It was at that moment he was glad she was scarily drunk, she would not notice the slip in his usual impassive façade.   
  
_She won't be receiving anything more to work with that I have to give her. _  
  
"Sark! The infa-mousse Mr. Sark is in my 'umble abode." Sydney attempted a mocking bow the, achieving it without much grace, but achieving it none the less. "What do you want? Here to kill me? Get you pwize, er, prize? To destroy me bit more? Do your Master's handiwork like the lap-, lap-, lapdog you are?"   
  
Sark stopped himself short of snarling at the woman. Holding himself back from her his composure remained intact.  
  
_Sydney, Sydney, Sydney .I'll only allow so much. Don't push me._  
  
The giggling had turned into a bitter laugh and Sydney swayed heavily before opening her mouth in an attempt to speak once more.  
  
"Or are you here to get me to work with you a-gainnn? Well go ahead, do what always wanted to dooo. Shoot Sydney, Sark! Give yourself the grati-, grati-, what you always wanted. You can finally say you best-ed Sydney Bistow. Er, Bristow." She threw her arms out at her sides, her head dropping back. Then she fell back into the chair behind her, her eyes closed.  
  
"Ooof." Sydney grumbled.  
  
"Is there any particular reason you're referring to yourself in the third person, Agent Bristow?" Sark muttered quietly, mainly to himself. Sighing the young man slipped off his jacket. Looking with disgust at the overloaded suit stand he turned abruptly, entering the first room on his left, down the corridor. Realizing thankfully that this was the spare bedroom he went straight to the wardrobe and removing a hanger he slid his suit jacket over it and back into the wardrobe.   
  
Returning to the main room he looked over at the young woman. Not letting his eyes linger.  
  
_For a woman who can strike fear into the hearts of any man she chooses, she holds her alcohol like a teenager._  
  
He turned around and as he did so Sydney opened one tired eye and peered at him through it. Had she had the energy she'd demand to know what the hell he was doing in her apartment if he wasn't kidnapping or killing her.   
  
_#Well, he could still do both.#  
_  
Her body refused to fight the sleep that threatened to overtake her, and she gave herself over to it without too much of a thought.  
  
Sark dropped the folder he had brought with him onto her dining room table and without sparing her a glance he strode out onto her balcony, half closing the door behind him, leaving it open enough to hear any distinctive sounds. Settling himself into a chair he let the night engulf him.   
  
_If I left, I know she'd find me. We both know she has no other choice. However, neither do I, even if she isn't aware of that._

He glanced back over his shoulder, reassuring himself that she was still slumped in the chair, safe from any harm but that she inflicted on herself.  
  
_So I wait. She has a choice that much is true, but as far as I'm concerned, there's only one. I won't allow for anything else_.


	7. Chapter 6

Sydney woke, her head causing swimming in a haze. Raising it slowly, ever so slowly, she realized where she was. Sitting on her armchair.  
  
_#Correction, sprawled on my armchair.#  
_  
Slowly her mind tried to piece together what had happened.  
  
_#Eric. Dinner. Wine. Scotch. Oh, god, not the scotch.#  
_  
She glanced at the nearly empty bottle on the table, her fears being confirmed. She raised her head and looked around her apartment. The plates were littered around the kitchen, along with the empty wine bottles. She stood up slowly, immediately regretting it. Clutching her stomach she ran to the bathroom. Swinging the door open she dropped hurriedly to her knees in front of the toilet, proceeding to displace the contents of her stomach down the pristine white bowl. When the tremors finally subsided Sydney lent her forehead against the rim, taking deep breaths and cringing from the taste of vomit in her mouth. Reaching up a shaky hand she flushed the toilet, steadily getting to her feet. Sydney flicked on the light in the room and stood in front of the mirror.  
  
_#Real attractive, Sydney.#_

Splashing cold water on her face she tried to make her appearance resemble something of the norm. It far from worked. Her pale, washed out face stared back at her through blood shot eyes. Red wine stained the side of her mouth and her hair hung limply about her ghostly face. Using a band from her wrist she pulled her hair from her face, fixing it up in a ponytail. Picking up her toothbrush she proceeded to scrub away the taste in her mouth. Returning it to its rightful place her hand reached inside the cupboard from some aspirin. The her head shot up, at an alarming speed, forcing her to groan.  
  
_#Sark#  
_  
Cautiously she stepped out of her bathroom, the aspirin forgotten, and peered in both directions. Her bedroom door was still tightly shut. No one had been in there, she knew instinctively. Then her eyes unexplainably shot to the guestroom. As silently as she could she slipped inside the room her hand reaching in the dark for the vase by the bed. She clicked the light on, ready to face anyone, only to be met with an empty room. Dropping to the floor in a flash she looked under the bed.   
  
_#No one there either.#_  
  
Standing up she looked over at the wardrobe. Walking quietly towards it she held the vase above her head and swung the door open, her body tensing, ready for a fight. Al she was met with was a single blazer, resting neatly on a hanger.   
  
_#My hanger. Not my blazer_.#

The young woman's eyebrows rose questionably. Still clutching the vase tightly she made her way to the main living area.  
  
It was then that she saw him. Sitting out on her balcony, in the morning sun, with his back to her.  
  
_#Sark#_


	8. Chapter 7

Sydney stood, staring at him sitting there, oblivious to her presence . She really didn't know what to do, a wanted assassin, terrorist and all round not-so-nice-guy was sitting in her apartment and she had absolutely no idea how to react.  
  
_#That could be something to do with the hideous hangover. Sydney, come on! Option 1: Call the CIA and then secure him. Option 2: Apprehend and secure him, then call the CIA. Really not that hard.#_  
  
She stood there, just staring; she really couldn't pull herself away. The fact that he had the audacity to break into her apartment, stick around until morning and use her hangers amazed her.  
  
_#Yeah, and you, a world renowned CIA agent were too drunk to even realize he was in your apartment. He could have blown your brains out in your sleep and you wouldn't have done a thing to stop him. Actually why didn't he blow my brains out in my sleep? Sadistic bastard probably wanted to wait until this morning, at least it would end this hellish headache. Well I'll be damned if he gets away with it_.#  
  
With that Sydney took a confident step purposely toward the balcony, before halting and clutching her head.  
  
_#Gun! Oh, you're on the ball today, Syd.#_  
  
Carefully, and slowly, stepping back she kept her eyes on the head of blond hair and reached over and pulled open a kitchen drawer, feeling around at the back her fingers closed over a gun. Holding the gun up she resumed her stalk towards the balcony.   
  
As she passed her kitchen table on her way to the balcony her eyes were distracted by something, something that seemed out of place. Averting her eyes ever so slightly she saw a brown folder, a brown folder that had something written on the front. Looking back up at Sark she kept her gun trained loosely on him, she really did feel too much like crap for anything else.  
  
_#Besides, if he had wanted to kill me he would have done it by now.  
  
-Doesn't mean he won't maim you Sydney!!!! #  
_  
She groaned, her thoughts straining her mind. Moving over to the kitchen table she glanced down at the folder. Her breath caught in her throat.  
  
**Bristow. S.  
  
- Thorne. J.**  
  
Her hand dropped to the folder, fingering its edge. This could be everything or nothing at all.   
  
_#Knowing Sark it won't be anything less than everything.#_  
  
It was this moment that she had been waiting for, hoping for, since she had woken up in Hong Kong on that fateful night and no matter what she told herself, she couldn't bring herself to open that folder. She couldn't,#_won't#_, admit it, but it scared her. Looking up at the man on her balcony Sydney realized that she didn't care, she didn't care that he was sitting there, didn't care about the dirty dishes on the side, the bottle of scotch on the table, her job or duty, she didn't care about anything but what was contained in the folder in front of her and about everything she was.  
  
_#It's a long time since I was the only thing I focused on..#_  
  
Sydney brandished the gun once more, holding it determinedly in front of her. Picking up the folder she walked to the balcony, the pounding in her head vaguely reminding her of the previous night's activities.   
  
_#Time to wake the annoying little brat up.#_  
  
Sliding the half open door harshly Sydney jabbed the gun into the back of Sark's head. Tossing the folder onto his lap she spoke in clipped, pointed tones.  
  
"What's in it, Sark?" 


End file.
